Facebook. Twitter. Formspring. Goodreads.
Photography. Journals. Work. Reviews & Coverage. Seedbook.
| Provided by website-hit-counters.com site. |
“Give me a stick,” she said, handing the woman a five peso coin.
“Ineng, dalawa para sa tatlong pi-”
“TINATANONG?!” The girl threw the money at the woman’s lap and grabbed a single stick from the nearest open pack.
She had never smoked before but all the acclaims told her that it was worth it. She knew all of the consequences of it. She had seen all of the damn health videos and labels and witty advertisements that never really said anything. She knew what smoking could do to her but everyone who did It knew the consequences too but they still put the death in their systems like they didn’t know any better themselves.
She lit the cigarette in her hand, her fingers fumbling as she tried to align the lighter with the stick. All those years seeing her own father waste himself away, along with the friends that she had that did it, and her hands trembled just to see the end of it burn and glow. She had never been tempted or enticed by the idea of putting cancer into her lungs before; as a matter of fact, she hated it. She had stood up against it in every rally, in every social network post she could think of. She was in the darkness and it was the only fire she could see. Fire always burns brighter in the dark.
The first inhale felt like nothing. It had none of the promised rush or the burn of poison. What was she expecting anyway? A glorious high at first puff? Maybe. Probably. Yes.
Traffic was buzzing at her side as she walked to only God knows where. The honking came from the cars and the high screeching of rubber came from jeepneys were her only music as the melodies of the songs she used to listen to were too painful to bear.
“Stalker.”
I walk and I walk and I walk; the single stick still clumsily balancing on my fingers.
That word rings inside my head, no matter the noise of suburban Las Piñas gives me. Their voices don’t go away and my skin itches with the blood bursting to get out. My elbows, my arms, the back of my neck – there’s an itch inside my skin that I can’t scratch no matter how hard my nails try. I should really stop biting my nails until there’s nothing left but uneven stubs of life.
I can’t get them to shut up. Their voices are stuck in my head. Shut up. Just shut the hell up. Just shut up. You don’t know me. None of you know me. None of you ever did. Stop staring at me. Stop watching me like you know me, like you know what happened to me. Don’t you dare believe them. I’m not. I’m not what they said I am. I’m not. I’m fine.
But even I can’t lie to myself, can I?
What brought on this desire, this need, to inject myself with poison? My lungs aren’t burning like the videos said they would. I feel none of the bliss I was promised. By those who take the poison regularly. The embers burn slowly and the faint orange glow from the tip refuses to die out while it kills me, while I burn myself out. My feet hurt. I don’t know how long I’ve been walking. I don’t know where I am. The streets are alive with cars and jeepneys while I walk, trying to die with grief and fire. The sky is turning dark and the clouds are formless sheets of water cast away by the oceans beneath them.
“The next time you walk away, make sure you know what you’re walking away from! God, you have nothing to be mad about! Don’t expect me to apologize, my slate is clean!”
He said that. He told you that? Yes he did. Right after you had your dance with speeding traffic, hoping maybe somehow, you’d forget the choreography. Maybe he was right. Maybe you didn’t hear it properly. He’s your best friend. He’s the one person you trust more than anyone else in the world. Would he really say that about you?
Even if that was the case, to hell with his slate. Why didn’t he defend you? Don’t you matter to him enough for him to clear your name?
I love you, I love you.
And I’m sorry for it. I’m sorry that I love you? Should I be?
Who are you? I don’t know. Who am I? What am I doing?
She draws the poison to her lips as her insides beg her to stop. She’s not used to it. She tries to hold it in but she gives out and the gray clouds escape her mouth. The streets glow dim with the same orange glow of her stick.
I’m aware of the saltwater that dare escape from my traitorous eyes. My tears are my prisoners and I am the warden. Yet they make their way out of me anyway. I am pathetic, even my own bodily fluids can’t bear to be a part of me. I hold the cigarette like I do a pen and with it, I write my last will and testament.
You take in all your hopes and dreams of live and future and you spit it out, putting nothing in yourself but the slow ticking of death. At least death is consistent.
Her tears spill out and she feels a scream within herself. Her knees shake and she has to cling to the nearest streetlight just to stand, the cigarette in between her teeth. The pole is decorated with print ads about things and people who are missing, who will probably never make it home. She hears a loud cry of agony from a wailing girl nearby.
It takes a second to realize that the voice is my own.
You grip the pole for dear life, the dirty metal pole against the poison burning through your veins. Barely dressed men who are badly in need of a shave and are undressing you with their minds stare at you as you lose yourself on that pole. They could take you and have you at any way they wanted now and you don’t know where you are. It’s still the same orange glow that surrounds you but nothing feels like home.
The vehicles on the streets belch out black wisps of death and it fills her lungs with other people’s poisons, deadlier than the one on her lips.
“I care about you. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you’ll be okay when I’m gone.”
Liar. I know what I am to you now.
Your hands look skeletal in the harsh orange light, the darkness consuming the day. Your hands look like there are no muscles protecting it. There are no muscles, no tissues, no skin – just the crumbling of your own brittle, rotten, decaying bones. The poison works fast in you. You have no more blood – only fire.
She’s gone. I’m lost. You’re dead.
POST DETAILS:
Posted on February/12/2012
Tagged as: mine, short story, personal,
POST NOTES:
-
tumblrfiction reblogged this from sisypheandreams
-
arsenical liked this
-
processproduct liked this
-
sisypheandreams posted this
1/1
